


and all hope abandon, ye who enter here

by transkylo (captainandor)



Series: for the dead travel fast [1]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Dracula is bisexual I dont make the rules !!!! sorry bbc, Imprisonment, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Temporary Character Death, also comes with the territory, it comes with the territory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22242388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainandor/pseuds/transkylo
Summary: The look in Dracula’s eyes had been close to reverent, and Johnathan dropped the glass onto the floor, panting.“More.” He had said, “I need – please.”“Oh,” Dracula had murmured, leaning forwards, “You are a beauty, aren’t you?”
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Series: for the dead travel fast [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605586
Comments: 21
Kudos: 387





	and all hope abandon, ye who enter here

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this stupid show like 2 days ago and I hate how obsessed I currently am with Claes Bang as Count Dracula so have my dream scenario for what happened after Johnathan jumped off the edge of the castle. spoiler alert: its gay 
> 
> as comes with the territory for this pairing: proceed with caution. Johnathan can totally hold his own against Dracula, and everything is consensual, but also Dracula is an evil bastard so

Johnathan stands on the rooftop, head tipped back, the light of the full moon kissing his skin. The valleys far below the castle are awash with shadow and light both, woven through with the dark, glittering waters of the Turcul river. It’s cold, standing here in nothing more than his linen nightshirt, his feet bare on the tile. But he’s grown used to it. He’s been cold since the moment he died – the moment his neck was snapped in this very spot. 

He longs for England, like he does most nights. Longs for Mina’s warm embrace, the golden halo of her hair spread across the pillow next to him. What has become of her, he wonders, in the months he’s been held captive here. He has quite lost track of time – one night blurs into the next, his days spent sleeping, hiding from the sun which burns his skin. 

Has Mina written? It’s not as though the Count would let Johnathan know if she had. 

He runs a hand back through his hair which is starting, slowly, to regrow, though it’s patchy in spots. His nails, too, have begun to re-emerge from his damaged cuticles. Johnathan wonders, idly, if they will grow into sharp, pointed talons, deadly like Dracula’s own. The regrowth of his teeth was a slow and painful process, as the bones shifted and moulded themselves into rough edged, razor sharp fangs, designed only for the purpose of tearing flesh. 

Would Mina even recognise him now, if she could see what he has become? The mirror shows a perfect image of death and decay, but when he looks down at himself his skin is smooth, paler than it was in life, yet remarkably unblemished.

Johnathan doesn’t move when he hears the latch on the door behind him being lifted. 

It seems, in his undeath, he has been gifted with supernaturally good hearing, and an intrinsic awareness of Dracula’s presence. He can feel the Count’s proximity to him. Feels, rather than sees, Dracula come to a stop at his side, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his own pale face tipped up towards the full moon. 

“My dear Johnny,” he says, voice dripping with false sweetness. “I wondered where you had disappeared off to.” In the corner of his eye, Johnathan sees Dracula turn his head to look at him, gaze penetrating, “Not planning on throwing yourself off the edge again, are you?” he tsks, “Such a mess you made, the last time.”

A moment passes, in which Johnathan refuses to respond. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly upwards, watching the pale grey clouds roll across the sky. 

“The bed is very empty without you.” 

Johnathan can’t help but rise to the bait. The anger is there constantly, simmering just below the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. The slightest provocation is often enough. 

“Monsters like you don’t sleep in beds.” He says, tightly, ignoring the fact that, in this regard, he and Dracula are the same – monstrous – “You spend your days in a box of dirt.” 

When Johnathan turns his head to finally look at him, eyes fixed in a glare, the Count’s lip quirks up into a smile, dark eyes glittering. “Ah.” He says, “That may be so, but the nights are long, and the bridal chamber does have such a luxurious bed for us to enjoy.” 

He unclasps his hands, reaching up to touch Johnathan’s cheek, a pale imitation of a caress. A memory, hazy, flickers into Johnathan’s mind – Mina, her long, shining hair, the smell of her perfume, cradling his face, before leaning in for a chaste kiss. The memory dissipates, too quickly for him to catch sight of his fiancée’s face, and he is left with Count Dracula, lips turned into a gentle pout, considering. 

“You know.” He adds, almost conversationally, “There’s room in the coffin for two.” 

Johnathan wants to spit on him, but refrains. He was raised better than that. Instead, voice tight, he says, “Don’t touch me.” 

A cloud passes over the moon, casting a brief, dark shadow across Dracula’s face. “My dear, that is not what you were saying to me last night.” 

A hot wave of shame and anger floods over Johnathan, and he clenches his teeth, feels the sharp, uneven edges of them against his tongue. He has no dignified response, because Dracula is right. Had he not yielded, offered himself up, even, when Dracula had paid that visit to his room, on the first night of Johnathan’s undeath? 

Last night. The night before. How many had it been, now? He kept on allowing it, kept saying _yes_ And worse, even, was how he wanted it. 

The Johnathan Harker that had come to Transylvania on a business trip, months ago, would have been shocked at how easily he’d let Count Dracula into his bed. He may have been innocent, but he was no fool. He knew what some men did together behind the privacy of closed doors, had never sought to pass judgement on the joy found in the company of another, regardless of sex. But he never thought he would have been one of them. Though perhaps the word joy cannot be used to describe what one feels when finding oneself in the company of a monster like Count Dracula. It was not the way things had been with Mina, soft smiles and loving, lingering touches from kind hands. Dracula was animal through and through, and his cruelty pierced to the bone. 

It had all been too easy, really. Dracula had found him, floating uselessly along the river bank far below the castle. The water had not carried Johnathan far, and he was only a mile down the valley the following night. It was dark, no moon in the sky, but Dracula’s wolves had sniffed him out, led their master to his side. The Count had carried him back to the castle, his broken bones twisting and snapping themselves back into place quite of their own accord, painful as it was. 

Dracula had offered him a glass of the same dark red that he had favoured himself at their previous dinners. Johnathan had long figured out what it was – and to his disgust, his mouth had watered as soon as the smell had reached him. He had near snatched the glass from the Count’s hands, and knocked it back, feeding like a starved animal. The look in Dracula’s eyes had been close to reverent, and Johnathan dropped the glass onto the floor, panting. 

“More.” He had said, “I need – please.” 

“Oh,” Dracula had murmured, leaning forwards, “You are a beauty, aren’t you?” 

When Dracula’s hand, cool, but unexpectedly soft, had touched Johnathan just below the knee, he hadn’t pushed him away. And when his hand moved higher, slipped beneath the hem of Johnathan’s blood-stained night gown, he tipped his head back on the pillow, and sighed.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Dracula says now, stepping closer, till they are almost chest to chest. He’s dressed from head to toe in his usual black garb, impeccably regal. Johnathan feels quite bare in comparison, but Dracula has not yet provided him with any other clothing besides a night gown, and he has no idea what happened to the suitcase full of business wear he had brought with him to the castle. 

“You won’t make me one of your – one of your slaves.” Johnathan says, thinking back to the woman, and the box, and the terrible baby. Had her fate been the same as his, at first, before she was cast aside? 

Dracula seems to follow his train of thought, and he chuckles, his lips pulling back to reveal the edge of his teeth. “Oh I see.” He says, “No, Johnny, you mustn’t worry.” His hand trails down Johnathan’s neck, past where his pulse point used to be, and settles on his chest, lingering where the night shirt ties closed, fingering absently at the ribbon, “Is that what you think my lovely brides are? Slaves? I must say, you have a terribly poor opinion of me. I’m hurt,” 

“You murdered one right in front of me!” Johnathan snaps. “People are disposable to you. Life is disposable to you – once I figure out how to escape this godforsaken place I’m never coming back. You can’t stop me leaving.” 

That cold hand slides back up, tightens around Johnathan’s throat. “Oh but I can.” He tips Johnathan’s face to the side, leans in and brushes his nose against Johnathan’s jaw. “You belong here now. Come on, Johnny, admit it. You need me.” 

“I don’t.” Johnathan says. He feels his body responding, traitorously, to the kisses trailing along his skin, the fabric being parted at his collarbone. He grits his teeth, some part of him wanting to bite and claw at Dracula, but it’s a losing battle. 

He _wants_. He can’t help it. 

“No?” the Count’s eyes flicker up, briefly, to meet his own. They are deceptively human, like this – dark, warm, even, when they’re not tinged red. He looks at Johnathan with the kind of amusement on the face of a cat who plays with a mouse, right before he devours it. 

“I’m going to win.” 

At this, Dracula looks absolutely delighted. “Oh, I did well with you.” He laughs, “There’s my Johnny.” 

Johnathan allows Dracula to tear the fabric of his nightshirt open, and discard it, carelessly, on the ground. He trails his fingers down the centre of Johnathan’s chest, feels the empty space where his heart used to beat, where his lungs lie empty and disused. Johnathan doesn’t take his eyes off Dracula’s face. 

“You really are coming along so nicely.” He says, in the way that somebody might comment on a prize racehorse, or a pig being fattened for slaughter. Johnathan isn’t sure which is worse. 

Instead of replying, Johnathan takes the Count's wrist, and guides his hand between his legs.

(Someday, he’s going to kill Dracula with his bare hands.)

**Author's Note:**

> no thoughts head empty except for hot dracula man


End file.
